


The Spaces In Between

by theoneinquisitor



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, And a little bit of every dystopian novel ever written, Angst, Based on The Walking Dead, Before and After, Bellarke, Hurt/Comfort, Memory Loss, Panic Attacks, Repressed Memories, TW: mentions of suicidal thoughts, i'll probably have to add more tags at some point but this is what I got
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 16:49:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15223487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoneinquisitor/pseuds/theoneinquisitor
Summary: There's an art to surviving the end of the world: remembering what you have to live for.





	The Spaces In Between

**Author's Note:**

> Or: a study in human nature as two people try to find each other again in a different life. 
> 
> I'm not sure what this is to be quite honest. But I wrote it almost six months ago and came back to it, realizing that it was actually a pretty neat concept.  
> Warnings: There is mention of past trauma, panic attacks, violent descriptions, and deals a lot with the idea of repressed memories. 
> 
> enjoy?

 

**PART I.**

_Finally, I woke up in the darkness of the night_  
_The shadow of rain falling in the lone street light_  
_I thought I heard a whisper reaching from the past_ _  
An echo, a reminder, nothing ever lasts_

* * *

 

 

The wind is picking up. 

Clarke flicks the lighter for the tenth time, cupping her hand around it to try to keep a flame for more than a second. It flickers and goes out, but not before she gets the familiar inhale of nicotine. She pulls it slowly, savoring the burn in her throat before releasing a large puff of smoke into the air.

It feels good. A small luxury left at the end of the world.

She shoves the pack, weighing just that of three remaining cigarettes, into the pocket of her jacket with the lighter and turns towards the stalled vehicle. She kicks the tire for good measure, the sole of her boot thunking on the burned-out rubber.

_ Piece of shit. _

Of all the cars she’s managed to acquire, this one made it the shortest distance. She drove maybe two days before the engine sputtered, dying somewhere on the outskirts of Oklahoma City, at least, according to her map. Middle of nowhere, probably crawling with flesh-eaters. Exactly what she needs.

As if on cue, a growl hums faintly in the distance.  It doesn’t sound panic-close, so she finishes her cigarette without rush before tossing it to the ground and digging the heel of her shoe into the concrete for good measure. End of the world or not, she can’t walk away from a burning cigarette in good conscious.  Walking back to the truck, she reaches into the open window to grab her rifle. The old antique rattling under her fingers as she pulls the strap over her shoulder and flips the safety. Her thumb finds its way to the familiar name carved right above the trigger. One light rub for good luck. 

Hopping into the bed for a better, panoramic view of the abandoned highway, she lifts two fingers in the air. Half value _ ,  _ she deduces as the wind blows a stray curl against her cheek. She clicks the scope into place. The rifle comes to her shoulder and she squints, spotting the deadite at four o’clock. She aims and it opens its mouth with a skin raising hiss.

“You got a big storm comin’,” she whispers. 

_ He’s  _ not around anymore to sigh at her shitty pop culture references and the ache in her chest throbs a little more painfully.

Pop! The hiss turns into one long guttural growl.

“Yeah,” she says when it falls to the ground, finally silent., “Fuck you, too.”

Another one curves around the back of an old Toyota and she takes aim again. Another pop rings as the bullet pierces it right through the forehead. Bullseye.

She waits for more, expecting at least a dozen because the stupid creatures seem to travel in herds and they sure do take their time showing up. Another lesson: always keep the high ground until you’re  _ certain  _ the coast is clear. While running into them on the ground isn’t unmanageable, it’s not something she’s fond of.  As skilled as she’s gotten with the machete strapped to her thigh, she prefers not having to smell them. Rotting corpses aren’t pleasant. Five minutes pass without sound so she slings the gun over her shoulder and hops down.

The rusted door of the truck groans when she pulls it open, leading her to giving it another half-hearted kick. To be fair, it got her farther than walking would have. 

Quickly gathering her things, the heavy military grade backpack and heavier-duty canteen - fucking ex-marine’s and their survival gear - she begins her trek down the highway. 

There has to be another car somewhere.

* * *

 

_ Laughter reverberates through the marble banquet hall as she grabs another flute of champagne off the tray. It’s a theoretically happy occasion but Clarke feels nothing of the sort. She stares from her place, one of the many white-clothed, excessive burgundy and rose-gold bouquet adorned tables, as the all to familiar brunette leans in to kiss her new wife on the cheek.  _

How fucking adorable.  _ She drinks the bubbly with a scowl. _

_ “Jesus, “a voice interrupts her pity party of one, “It’s a wedding not a funeral.” _

_ She squints at him, mostly because the lights are too bright and she can’t fucking see, but also, she doesn't know who the hell he is and why he’s commenting on her celebration tactics. _

_ “Depends on how you look at it,” she retorts, downing the rest of the drink in one long gulp. He laughs, running a thick hand through his poor attempt at taming an otherwise chaotic mane of curls.  _

_ “I guess that’s true,” he concedes. The waiter passes them by and he stops him, grabbing two more glasses from the tray. He hands one to her and she takes it gratefully, lifting it in thanks.  _

_ He must take it as an invitation because he sits in the vacant chair, hell, vacant table because even the old couple she had been sitting with decided to get up and be social. She tries to figure out if she knows him, something eerily familiar about him, but as she gazes at him through her admittedly somewhat blurry vision, she can’t quite place him. He’s fairly attractive, a sharp jaw smoothed over in perfect tanned skin with a grin hardly matched by anyone she’s ever met. She’s almost certain he probably has a certain boyish charm that causes panties to literally and metaphorically drop. But it doesn’t explain why he’s sitting here, next to her. _

_ “We met a couple years back,” he seems to read her mind and she hopes he chalks it up to a champagne induced memory block. She tries to think on it, she does, because how could she forget someone who looks like him? But everytime she reaches for the memory, she’s bombarded with infinite reminders of every time she sat on the current bride’s face.  _

_ “I just can’t commit the way you want me to right now, Clarke,” she had said.  _

_ Marriage sure seems like a fucking commitment to her. _

_ She turns back to the mysterious not-stranger and shrugs unapologetically, “I don’t remember.” _

_ He doesn’t seem offended, just gives her that charming smile and follows her line of vision to the happy couple.  “Sorry about that.” _

_ That draws her attention. He continues, “I don’t think Lexa ever actually wanted to get married. Costia is just different.” _

_ Oh. He thinks she’s pining after her ex. Which, fair, it probably appears that way. _

_ It’s not that Clarke is still in love with Lexa. Not by any means, it’s been almost two years since they broke up. Her sudden existential crisis has less to do with her ex finding said commitment with someone else and more to do with the fact that her life seems to be going absolutely fucking nowhere while everyone else seems to be rocketing right on through it without issue. _

_ “Thanks,” she mutters, tapping her manicured finger against the table. She suddenly feels the need to explain, “I am happy for them, for the record.” _

_ “You sure? I’m pretty sure you’re one glare away from setting the entire venue on fire.” _

_ She should tell him to fuck off. It’s not like he has any right to be here with his whole, ‘you should smile more, sweetheart’ routine. But alcohol is bubbling in her stomach and her blood is running warm, her mouth a little loose. She turns and leans in with a sly smile. _

_ “Isn’t it so unfair, though?Like, they have everything so figured out.” _

_ He doesn’t respond, so she continues, her rants falling from the tip of her tongue like it’s been sitting there for years. In truth, it has.  _

_ “I’m a year older than Lexa,” she emphasizes, “And I still have no fucking clue what I want to do with my life. I can’t even commit to a major let alone a person! And yeah, okay, when I got the invitation I was a little pissed because like what was so wrong with me that I wasn’t worth committing to? Is it because I can’t even manage to fold my laundry most days? What is it?” _

_ She glances at him and expects him to make some excuse and walk away, because who would voluntarily sit and talk to a drunk girl on her soap box? But he’s watching her intently, teeth biting into his lip as he listens, like he’s trying to simultaneously concentrate and not laugh at her. _

_ She has a fleeting desire to find out what that lip would feel like under her teeth. _

_ “Sorry,” she apologizes, more for her intrusive thought than the rant, and this time he does laugh. _

_ “No worries,” he tells her, “For what’s it’s worth, I totally get it.” _

_ “You do?” _

_ He nods, pushing the sleeve of his dress shirt up where it’s fallen, “This is that age, you know? Everyone around you is growing up and here you are, fumbling through the days of the week.” _

_ Her eyes flit down to his exposed forearm,  more inappropriate thoughts fleeting through her mind. She licks her lips, “Yeah, exactly.” _

_ His eyes follow the movement of her tongue, and she might be crazy but do they darken a shade or two?  _

_ “It’s really stupid, right?” _

_ “Totally.” _

_ It escalates quickly from there. After they both pronounce their ‘fuck you’s to the world, he asks her to dance. It’s clumsy and awkward, but his hands are warm through the thin chiffon of her dress and she notices the freckles peppered along his nose. A pause. A flicker of eyes to lips. They both lean in. _

_ Not five minutes later she’s pressed against the wall of the co-ed bathroom somewhere in an upstairs lounge. His teeth scrape against her neck while she draws blood from her own lip to keep herself from being too loud. It’s been awhile since she felt this, the intimate touch of another person, and the energy is intoxicating. _

_ “Are you sure about this?” he breathes into her ear, suddenly shy despite the pressure against her thigh. She shifts against it and he surrenders a growl. _

_ “I’m good,” she confirms. The champagne still flows warmly through her blood but her head is clear as ever.. Being extremely turned on, it turns out, is the sure way to sober her up quickly.  _

_ It’s fast and hot, just a mess of  tongues and mouths on skin. Her dress is hiked up around her waist, underwear pushed aside, and it’s not exactly intimate. But he’s gentle with his touches, and knows exactly what to whisper in her ear to make sure she has to bite down on his shoulder to muffle each moan. When it’s over, her legs are wobbly and mind a bit hazy from the bliss of her first orgasm in nearly eight months. Her eyes have a hard time staying open. He takes a moment to lean his head on the tiled walls to catch his breath. _

_ “I feel like a shitty person,” she tells him as they walk back down to the party, her dress straightened and his hair flattened as best as possible, “But I don’t remember your name.” _

_ “Don’t feel bad,” he tells her, “I only know yours because Lexa insisted that I talk to you.” _

_ She stops in her tracks, mouth dropping in surprise, “Are you serious?” _

_ Panic rolls through her body, settling in the pit of her stomach. the realization that her ex just had someone sleep with her out of fucking pity. She feels like she’s going to be sick.  _

_ “No!” he seems to catch on to her thoughts, and grabs her shoulders swiftly before placing a finger underneath her chin to force her to look at him, “I just mean she wanted me to talk to you. For both of us to socialize, I think.” _

_ “That,” he gestures behind her towards the bathroom just recently party to their affair with a soft smile, “Was not planned. You’re just...something else. _

_ She blushes at the compliment, leaning into his touch as he tucks a stray curl behind her ear. It’s delicate, reverent, and she doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to forget his hands. Her body already has them memorized at only the briefest of touches. _

_ “I still don’t have a name,” she grins, arms threading around his neck as he leans down. His breath mixes with hers, lips just a whisper away. _

_ “Bellamy.” _

* * *

 

She finds her next set of wheels nearly four miles down the highway, sweat soaking through her jacket despite the early winter chill. She moves the body from the driver’s seat and takes the old shirt from her pack to wipe the blood from the headrest. She considers their last moment: did they decide this wasn’t a world worth living in or were they caught in the crossfire?. The gun in the floorboard tells her the former. She picks it up, releasing the clip and smiling when she sees it’s nearly full. 

She finds a pack of 9mm in the backseat along with a box of raisins. It’s a good day, she decides, popping the snack into her mouth. 

The car is an old Civic, specifically, the kind that hums when it accelerates and typically belonged to teenagers who enjoyed night racing down highway 55. It makes too much noise for comfort, but it has a running engine and her feet are killing her, so she takes it anyway. She spreads the map across the passenger seat, tracing the blue lines of the highway pattern to the city center. She’s circled it in thick, red ink. Thirty miles, if her calculation is correct. The sun is starting to tilt towards the west so she should make it just before dark, provided there are no blockades or herds. 

While in an ideal world, being the only car on the road would provide ample opportunity to drive however you please, this isn’t exactly prime dystopian terrain. There are bodies littered along the roads, cars overturned, and highway jams in formerly heavier populated areas. Trying to navigate around this is particularly frustrating, either having to get out and move cars herself or run over the dead like old road kill. She usually just tries to find an alternate route, avoiding large cities all together. Most were wiped out in military operations, anyway, a last ditch efforts to kill the virus and all those infected. 

As if a deadly virus weren’t enough, the government had to throw genocide in the mix. So much for natural selection. Leave it to humanity to do all the dirty work.

She fiddles with the cd player and it clicks on, the low rumble of Johnny Cash floating through the speaker. Not exactly what she expected, but who the fuck is she to judge? She turns up the volume as the first strums of  _ Ring of Fire  _ play. She sings along, fingers drumming against the steering wheel as she drives, indulging in this one moment of normalcy granted to her in this world of shit.

* * *

 

_ “I’m not having this conversation right now.” _

_ She adjusts the phone under her ear as she reaches for her favorite brand of cereal. Her fingers clip the box and it scoots further back, eliciting a frustrated groan from her lips. _

_ “Clarke,” her mother sighs into the phone, “I’m just trying to help. You haven’t dated anyone since Lexa –” _

_ “Yeah,” she snaps, “I’ve been a little busy.” _

_ She’s in the midst of her final semester of undergrad, five years in the making and more stressful than she’d like. Choosing to attend nursing school was the best and worst decision of her life. Deciding to do this while minoring in anthropology? She’s a damn masochist. Her semester is packed full of credit hours and reading lists too long to ever possibly finish.  _

_ She reaches for the box again, “I promise, I’m fine. I’m not withering away due to lack of companionship.” _

_ She misses what her mom says next, becoming distracted by the hand that reaches above her and grabs the box of cereal just as her fingers grazed it again. She turns, ready to lay into whoever it is that encroached on her territory but pauses before she can get her first verbal assault out.  _

_ “Mom, I have to go,” she tells says into the phone  quickly, not even waiting for the usual ‘love you’ that follows. _

_ That fucking grin. It’s criminal, really.  _

_ Bellamy hands her the cereal box, a blush creeping up his neck, and becomes suddenly interested in the freshly waxed aisle floor, “Uh, here.” _

_ She takes it tentatively from his hands, holding it in front of her unsure of what to say next. After their little tryst in the bathroom, they had continued to have a good time at the wedding, dancing, trading kisses and touches back and forth as they took advantage of the open bar. Eventually, they had to hare an Uber home, complete with an incredibly heavy make out session in the backseat like a couple of teenagers. He walked her to her door, but when she invited him in, he declined with a sad smile, “I have to work in the morning and something tells me if I came in there with you, I wouldn’t get any sleep.”  _

_ One long goodnight kiss later, she was in her bed alone and that’s it. That’s the end of the story because that’s the last time she saw him, six fucking months ago. She never got a phone number, a fact she silently cursed more than couple of times. She thought about asking Lexa for it, but then chickened out for one reason or the other and once school started, she sort of just forgot about it all together. For the best, really. Hadn’t she just told her mother she didn’t have time to date? _

_ “How are you?” he asks, and it’s stupidly formal considering they’ve already crossed a million boundaries. _

_ “Good,”  the cereal flakes rattle noisily with the nervous tap of her fingers, “You?” _

_ “Yeah, good,” he replies quickly. _

_ She takes a moment to admire him. Still ridiculously handsome, of course. His hair is a bit shorter and he’s wearing glasses, but it only seems to add to his charm. Her eyes follow his hand as it rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck. _

_ She’s thought about those hands once or twice. She feels her cheeks flare as she remembers the way they felt underneath her thighs. _

_ “This is stupid,” she starts to say. _

_ “I tried to call –” he tries at the same time. _

_ They laugh and just like that the tension leaves the air. She tosses the box of cereal in her cart and starts to walk, gesturing for him to follow. _

_ “I tried to get your number from Lexa,” he finishes, grabbing a box of breakfast bars and putting them in his basket, “When I called it was disconnected.” _

_ Fuck, that’s right. She got a new number after the whole marketing scandal – they would not stop calling her at all times of the day and she was tired of telling them to kindly screw themselves at three in the morning. _

_ “New number,” she explains, “I should have just put on my big girl pants and asked her for yours. But I thought it might be weird.” _

_ “So we both suck,” he concludes. _

_ She snags a bag of her favorite salted popcorn from the shelf, “Definitely.” _

_ She doesn’t miss the way his eyes skate over her body despite the over-sized hoodie blocking most of her greatest asset. She smirks when he realizes she caught him and he quickly changes the subject. _

_ “How do you survive on that kind of diet?” _

_ She’s not sure how, but they spend an hour walking around the grocery bickering about each other’s choices in brands and foods before finally making it through check out. He comes out with two bags while she has to use the cart to get all of it to her car. _

_ “So,” he says finally as he places the last bag in her trunk for her, “Would asking for your new number be too forward?” _

_ “Maybe. But I'll make the exception.” _

_ Someone coughs from behind her, causing her to jump clumsily into him. His hand catches her elbow and she blushes as the touch sends a flash of heat through her veins. _

_ “Shut up,” she hisses when he laughs. _

_ He takes out his phone and puts the number in, sending her a text with his name so she has his now as well.  _

_ “I’ll call you.” _

_ “Yeah, okay.” Another beat. And then he pulls her in, hugging her to his chest as her arms snake up his back. He’s solid and damn it, she feels like she’s swallowed her tongue.  _

_ “See ya,” she says and turns to get in her car. She pauses, door cracked open and shuts her eyes. This is a rash decision, she thinks, but she turns back around anyway. _

_ “Hey!” she calls from two cars down, “Got anything perishable in those bags?” _

_ She is so screwed.  _

_ He lets out a slow smile, “Not really.” _

 

* * *

 

She should have known it wouldn’t last.

She passes the city limits sign without any issue, the road surprisingly open all things considered, then again, people had been trying to flee big cities and not enter to the path inland wasn’t exactly busy. She parks on the ramp, shutting the car off and pulling the keys with her. While she hopes there isn’t need for it, it’s nice to have an escape plan. She’s learned that the hard way.

Litter scrapes across the concrete as the wind continue to blow and the map crinkles in her hands as she follows. She traces lines from the red circle to her estimated location, looking up to scan the skyline. _Find the tallest building, and follow the signs,_ it said, _we’re here to help._

It sounded like a load of bullshit at first, all safe zones had been bombed once the virus went pandemic. Yet, they were broadcasting in radio silence and that had to count for something. And she’d been alone for so long, the thought of being with people was too much to pass up.

The potential that she might find him.

She tries not to let her mind go there, knowing she’s only setting herself up for disappointment and potential heartbreak, but she can’t help it. Logically, she knows there’s a high probability that he’s dead. If he wasn’t wiped out in the first wave, then blown to bits in the one of the cities. He would have went there first to try and make contacts. He’s smart like that.

Yet, she still feels him. Call it stupid or naive, but she feels him beating somewhere in her heart and that has to mean something.

She keeps going.

The city is covered in soot from the bombs, a mix of bodies turned to ash and building burned to the ground. It’s the kind of scene common in the post-apocalyptic movies her best friend was obsessed with. He would drag her to the theater every time a new one was released and it’s almost funny that he’s not here to see it. He would probably comment on how they never got the tone right in the movies. He would be right.

She must be a little too lost in her thoughts, because she doesn’t here the growling until she turns the corner and by then, they’ve spotted her. The map falls from her hands with a soft flutter as dead eyes set on their next feast.

“Fuck.”

* * *

 

_“How’d you get this one?”_

_She ghosts a finger over the discolored skin on his abdomen, her chin turning on his chest to look up at him. His eyes flutter closed at her touch. She loves seeing him like this - content. Satisfied. Happy._

_She’s so happy._

_“Appendix,” Bellamy tells her, the low rumble of his voice sending a shiver up her spine. She leans up, her fingers tracing up his stomach, chest, and finally landing to the spot above his lip._

_“This one?”_

_He presses a kiss to her thumb, “Fell into the coffee table chasing my sister.”_

_“I didn’t know you had a sister,” she muses._

_It’s been three months since they ran into one another in the grocery store and she can hardly remember a time they’ve spent more than a couple of days apart. It’s not healthy, she knows that, especially considering neither one of them has even attempted to put a label on it. But she’s perfectly content spending nights like these, just talking to him. Getting to know as many parts of him as she can._

_He already knows so much about her, her fears and secrets. What makes her tick. He’s observant and patient in the best ways, so different than anyone she’s ever met. She’s fascinated by him, she aches to know more._

_“She’s four years younger,” he tells her, hand scratching gently up and down her bare back, “We don’t talk much anymore.”_

_She starts tracing idle patterns on his chest, listening to his heartbeat underneath where her ear is pressed into it, “How come?”_

_“We’re just…” he pauses to consider his words, “On different pages. Want different things. It’s better this way.”_

_She can tell by the way his voice gets far away, the way his hand stops moving against her instead shaking slightly, it’s not something he’s ready to talk about. She can give him the space he needs._

_She changes the subject, “I have scar on my ass. Rollerskating.”_

_He laughs, leaning up and effectively pushing her from his chest, “Let me see.”_

_She flips onto her back, pressing her butt into the sheets to hide it from him, “No!”_

_“Come on!” he whines, gripping her hips and trying to flip her back over. They wrestle, he tickles her sides and she’s laughing until she can’t breathe. It ends with her straddling his lap, the sheet now fallen to the wayside, her pale skin glowing in the moonlight streaming through her blinds._

_He grips her waist, eyes settling on her in a quiet reverence. The way he looks at her, as if she’s something special to behold, ignites a fire underneath her skin. She leans down, her golden hair creating a curtain around them as she presses her lips against his. Her forehead finds his and she smiles against his lips, “I kind of like you.”_

_He pushes her hair away, thumb stroking the soft skin of her cheek. His hands were made for her, she’s absolutely sure._

_“I kind of like you, too.”_

_It’s not anything new, of course. She still isn’t sure what they’re doing. But for now, it’s good enough._

* * *

 

She runs.

The impact of the pavement on her feet jerks into her knees, the soreness from miles of walking starting to kick in. Her backpack and rifle slam into her back with each step, her spine protesting furiously when the butt of the gun cracks against it. She spots an alleyway and dips into it, expecting some sort of access to high ground because it’s a city – fire escapes, right?

Wrong choice.

When she turns into the alley, she’s met with a dead end, the only high ground being a bright green dumpster pushed against the back wall of a brick building. The growling intensifies and she turns to see the following hoard. She jumps onto the dumpster, banging her knee against the corner and crying out. She pulls the rifle from her back and aims. She takes out three of them only for five more to take their place. Shooting isn’t going to work.

She unclips the machete from her thigh and begins to swing, chopping into heads at an alarming rate. She’s had far too much practice. They keep falling, but after a solid five minutes when the throng of dead monsters doesn’t end and her arm grows tired, it settles in just how fucked she is. She feels a sharp pain in her calf.

One of them is trying to latch on, and she feels teeth gnash through the skin. She swings and the mouth goes slack as inky blood spatters onto her jeans. She falls back as the pressure is released, hand shaking as it covers the fresh wound. She scoots so her back is pressed against the wall, watching has peeling hands reach for her, begging for a taste of her living flesh. She leans her head back against the wall with a sigh.

So this is how it ends.

She pulls the pistol from her waist, flipping the safety off and holding it out in front of her. If she’s meant to die, it’s going to be on her own damn terms.

“What the hell,” she says to no deadite in particular. None of them understand her, anyway, “I have nothing left to give you. You already took my family. My friends. My home. I have nothing left.”

She closes her eyes as the barrel presses against her chin.

* * *

 

_She has no one else to call._

_The therapist didn’t answer. Her mother is in surgery. And she herself wanting to talk to only one specific person, anyway._

_She’s sitting on the floor of her bathroom, soaked to the bone, her clothes clinging to her skin in cold desperation. Her fingers tremble as they find his name in her phone, clicking it before she can second guess herself._

_This is where she fucks it up. This is where he learns the truth about her. She's a mess. She's a walking disaster._

_“Clarke?” he’s winded, like he had run to the phone and she realizes that he must still be at work. He had to leave his post to answer for her. She feels her chest constrict further._

_“I’m sorry,” she croaks out, a violent shiver coursing through her body, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t --”_

_A sob crashes through her chest, amplified by the bathroom acoustics. She’s trying to breath but all she can see is rain and headlights. All she can smell is burning rubber and blood coating wet concrete. She remembers his face, right in front of her, terrified as he tries to swerve. Screeching tires. Screaming. So much screaming._

_“Clarke,” she can hear the panic in his voice, having never heard this side of her before. She’s tried to keep him from it. He knows everything else, all the best pieces of her but this one she keeps locked away. It beats on the corners of her mind but she’s learned how to keep it there. Until now._

_“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he tells her, and she can hear the sound of feet hitting pavement, the jingle of his keys, “You have to breathe, babe.”_

_He stays on the phone and her fingers are almost numb from holding it against her ear when he bursts through the door. Her breathing is still somewhat erratic as he drops to his knees. He maneuvers her around skillfully so that her back is pressed against his chest, arms wrapped firmly around her middle as he presses his nose into her neck._

_She can feel him underneath her, his calm breathing, each one long and thought out. She tries to mimic him, closing her eyes and focusing on him. Only him. He whispers small encouragements into her ear, “I’m here. I’ve got you.”_

_He starts to tell her obscure stories, one about the time he broke his finger, when he once stole a candy bar from the store across the street. She loses track of time after that, unsure of how long it takes before she’s completely relaxed into him, her heart finally beginning to fall into its normal rate._

_“How did you do that?” she asks once she finds her voice again. Somehow he knew exactly what to do, how to hold her. What to say._

_“I used to get these when I was younger,” he tells her, “My mom would hold me like this and just talk. It always worked.”_

_She almost smiles thinking about a young Bellamy, lying in his mom’s lap as she told him of fairytales and myths. She turns in his arms, realizing she’s left an imprint on his shirt from her wet clothes._

_“I’m sorry,” she says, suddenly interested in the frayed hole of her jeans. It hits her all at once that she's ruined the facade, the perfection of their casual relationship. She made it more than it is. She shouldn’t have called him. They aren’t like that. Intimate in some ways, but not like this. She’s tried to keep her distance in that sense, especially once she realized she wanted more from thim than he seemed willing to give. She had been fine without a label, fine to just be. But not anymore._

_“Hey,” he sits his chin on her shoulder, her breath tickling her cheek, “Don’t be sorry. I’m glad you called.”_

_She has to scoff at that, “Yeah, I’m sure this is exactly what you were hoping for when I called.”_

_It comes out a little more bitter than she intends. He sits back and lets out a low breath, “Clarke.”_

_She’s suddenly feeling out of place in her own skin. She moves away, standing and gripping the sink tightly._

_“Talk to me,” Bellamy doesn’t move from where he sits on the ground, arms resting on his knees and watching her through her reflection in the mirror, “Please.”_

_“It doesn’t matter.”_

_That gets him on his feet. He reaches for her, his hand settling on the small of her back and forcing her to turn around. She doesn’t want to look at him, not right now, not when all the pent of frustration and emotion threatens to spill over._

_“It does to me,” he tells her gently, both hands on either side of her face stroking at the damp skin, “Clarke, I care about you. More than I’ve cared about anyone in a long time.”_

* * *

 

The gunshot that rings out isn’t hers. The flesh eaters drop in the span of five seconds as she cowers against the back wall, the dumpster vibrating underneath her as bullets pierce the aluminum frame. Bodies fall with a sick thump and there is a sudden silence. She looks up and sees two figures standing at the opening still holding their guns at the ready.

“You good?” the tall one calls out, his voice surprisingly soft considering the tattoos covering both arms and the AR held in his large hands.

“Yeah?” she replies hoarsely. She slides down to the ground, avoiding the bodies fallen at her feet and holds her hands up in surrender, the guns still very much pointed in her direction.

“Where you from?” the other asks, a female. She can hardly make out her features, but she’s intimidating all the same.

“Boston,” she tells them. The guns drop instantly.

“No shit?” the girl asks, “Me too.”

Without the threat of a bullet, she steps a little closer, keeping her hands up in a sign of solidarity. The girl looks uncomfortably familiar, her dark hair cut at the shoulders, where a long tattoo twists around her bicep. She’s muscle and sharp angles, eyes cutting into her like tiny knives. The man, though tall and burly, holds a gentleness in his eyes and that puts Clarke at ease.

“How many people have you killed?” she asks tentatively.

She pauses for a second, the number one coming to her mind quickly. It was a request -- he was staring at her with wide, pleading eyes. _Please, please don’t let me do it._ She had sat with him for hours, a small ounce of hope that maybe he would be just like her. But then he took his last breath and she couldn’t let him wake up again.

She clears her throat, “One. He was bit.”

They don’t respond and Clarke watches a silent conversation pass between the two of them. She shifts uncomfortably before a pain rips through her leg. She lets out a cry before she can choke it down.

“You okay?” the man steps forward in concern. She bends down and rolls up her pant leg, assessing the damage. There’s a bloody crescent moon staring back at her, but it’s mostly superficial. Not deep enough for stitches but deep enough to be a pain in the ass.

“Shit,” the girl breathes, “You’re bit.”

Clarke covers it and stands, realizing the guns are pointed at her once more.

“You realize people have to die before they turn, right?” she snips, glaring at the rifle barrel. She’s so fucking tired.

She sighs. Might as well tell them the truth. Worst case, they don’t believe her and shoot her. But something, call it a gut feeling, tells her they wouldn’t do that. After all, they just swooped in and saver her from becoming dinner on a dumpster. That has to count for something.

“I don’t get infected.”

* * *

 

_She enters the room quietly, the paper bag crinkling all too loudly in her hands as she tries not to rouse him. There’s a lump in the middle of the bed, a pile of pillows and blankets pushed together as she hears the raspy intake of breath. She lays her purse on the floor and pads quietly across the room._

_She sits down and the mattress tilts, rolling him towards her with a groan. She places a hand on his back, cold from only a few minutes in the freezing January air. He stirs as goosebumps pepper his skin and she smiles warmly when he comes fully to._

_“What are you doing?” he mumbles, hair sticking up on one side from where he had been laying on the pillow. His eyes are puffy, cheeks flush with fever._

_He looks like complete and utter shit, but he’s adorable._

_“Brought you some soup and picked up your prescription,” she tells him and he rolls onto his back with an aching stretch._

_“You’re too good to me,” he comments, reaching out to her. She bends down, snuggling into his arm. He’s burning up, skin clammy and she can smell the flu on him._

_“Tell me about it,” she jokes. They’re still getting used to this -- being together. Before it had been different, when they were floating through the motions of a relationship without committing. So far, things couldn’t be better._

_She goes to kiss him but he turns his head, “I’m contagious!”_

_“I don’t care,” she laughs, scooting closer to him. But he pushes her away again._

_“I’m serious, I don’t want you to get sick.”_

_“Fine,” she concedes, sitting up to grab his soup. She opens it up and shows it to him and he leans up with another painful groan. She picks up a spoonful and offers it to him, “But I’ll have you know, I have steel immune system!"_

* * *

 

It turns out, the city is dead. The safe haven promised was wiped out not long after the broadcast had crackled over the radio.

“We have a camp about a day away from here,” the man, she now knows him as Lincoln, tells her. By the grace of whatever higher power exists, they don’t bother questioning her after she tells them their news. Instead, Lincoln throws her arm over his shoulder and they try to find their way out of the city limits without another incident.

“We were trying to find baby supplies,” the girl, Octavia, says when she asks what they were doing in an overrun city, “One of our group is pregnant.”

“Group?” she questions, the word falling from her lips like a prayer. Group. Meaning there is more than just them. Holy shit.

“Yeah,” Octavia replies, peeking around a corner to check the safety. She must see something because she holds her hand out only for Lincoln to put a rifle in it, two parts of one machine it seems. Her heart thuds painfully.

* * *

 

 _She lays her head on the table with a grunt, closing her eyes as her mind begins to go hazy. She still sees all the jargon scrolling behind her eyelids._ Osteopenia, osteomalacia, osteoporosis.

_“You look like shit,” she hears the chair across from her slide out and she somehow musters the strength to lift her head._

_“Fuck you,” she grumbles, eyes feeling like lead as she tries to open them. A familiar smell makes its way to her nostrils._

_“Wow,” Bellamy says sliding a coffee in front of her, “I can take the latte back, you know.”_

_She snatches it gratefully, taking a sip and moaning as the caffeine hits her, “Don’t you dare.”_

_He laughs, reaching out to take her hand, “Thought you might need a pick me up.”_

_He knows her so well. She gives him a tired, but contented smile, “What would I do without you?”_

_“Cease to function.” And it’s a joke, but she wonders if he knows how true that is? He’s an extension of her at this point, a piece of her that creates the whole._

_“Want me to quiz you?” he asks, sliding her notebook over to his side of the table._

_She smiles, because yeah, he’s pretty much perfect, “Sure.”_

* * *

 

She’s led to a small truck parked behind a crumbling parking garage in the middle of another absently wandering group of deadites. Octavia and Lincoln take care of them like a super team, not even bothering to waste bullets. Armed with just a pocket knife each, they move swiftly, and before Clarke even has a chance to cock her rifle, the group is dead.

Lincoln helps her slide into the middle seat before getting in on the driver’s side. Her stuff is tossed in the bed of the truck and she feels slightly naked without it, missing the comfort of her rifle as she touches knees with her new friends. Acquaintances. Group. Whatever the fuck.

“So,” Octavia starts, “You don’t get infected, huh? How’d you figure that out?”

She swallows, absently reaching up to touch the sunken flesh on her shoulder, “Trial and error.”

“You’ve been bit before.”

Clarke smiles, almost because it’s a morbid joke at this point, “A couple of times.”

It’s funny, she used to be so fascinated by scars. She remembers all the times she would lay and trace the one on Bellamy’s stomach, attracted to the uniqueness of it. It’s part of who he is, an extension of what makes him so beautiful and human. He never understood why her fingers always seemed to want to rest there, but would shutter with every soft brush.

Now that she’s covered in them – shoulder, rib cage, ankle, wrist, forearm, all she can think about is how ugly. How unnatural. These were never meant to be a part of her and all they are is a stark reminder that the world is dead, the living are few and far between.

“Why do you think it doesn’t happen to you?” Lincoln wonders and she wishes she had an answer. But the truth is, she has no fucking clue.

Maybe she pissed someone off in a former life and this is her punishment. Maybe she’s meant to watch the world suffer. Watch people get bitten just like her and live with the knowledge that they had to die and she didn’t.

“I don’t know.”

* * *

 

_Her hands shake as she holds the letter, words staring straight back at her in taunting bold letters. Accepted._

_He finds her like that._

_“Clarke?” he asks, the smile dropping from his lips as soon as he sees her on the bed, bouncing leg and cigarette dangling between her fingers. She doesn’t smoke often, only when her anxiety seems to be at an unreasonable level. He knows that about her. Just as he knows most things._

_She applied for the project over a year ago at the encouragement of her professor. A travel clinic through the Red Cross that provides aid to those struck by natural disaster. She hadn’t been with Bellamy before she applied and even so, she never thought she’d be accepted. She hands him the letter, eyes looking anywhere but directly at him. She takes a drag and exhales slowly._

_He skims over and sucks in a sharp breath, “Nepal?”_

_She shrugs her shoulder, biting the skin of her nail as she finds sudden intrigue in the old carpet. She flicks the ash into the empty cup on her nightstand. The bed shifts as he sits on it, the paper crinkling softly in his hands._

_“Hey,” he says gently, always so fucking gentle with her, “Clarke, this is amazing.”_

_That draws her attention. She looks up and he’s smiling, wiping the tear from her cheek and it causes her to only let out another soft cry._

_“It’s six months,” she tells him, “Six months of almost no contact. I’ll be somewhere else, I won’t be able to –”_

_He kisses her, hand cupping her cheek and threading into her hair to hold her there, “You have to do it.”_

_She lets out a shaky breath, leaning into his chest before murmuring, “What about us?”_

_“I love you,” he says like it’s the most natural thing in the world, the first time the words have left his lips. It’s been a road, getting to this point.  But she’s loved him so long she hardly remembers what it felt like not loving him. That’s what scares her, because this is all still so new and she’s leaving it behind._

_“I could never let you turn something like this down,” he continues, “I can wait. This can’t.”_

_So September rolls around and she kisses him long and hard, whispering the words into his ear over and over._

_“Six months.” he repeats as she walks away,  “That’s nothing.”_

* * *

 

They pull off an unmarked exit sometime after eleven p.m. Octavia has a working watch and Clarke finds herself in envy of that. Her father’s watch still sits on her wrist despite having been broken for years. Time hasn’t mattered much to her these days, anyway.

“Sorry it’s not more comfortable,” Octavia says when Lincoln hops into the bed of the truck, agreeing to take first watch. He kisses Octavia quickly before getting out, an awkward affair since Clarke was sitting right in the middle of them. But it gives her some semblance of peace, seeing the two of them have each other’s back like that.

She leans against the window, her arm tucked beneath her head as her breath comes out in visible puffs. She and Octavia are sharing a small fleece blanket, but it only reaches to her waist. She shifts trying to get comfortable.

“Do you have anyone left?” Octavia finally whispers.

She tries to stop the burning in her eyes, closing them tightly, but they spill over anyway.

“I hope so.”

* * *

 

_She makes it  just over three months before she's on a plane home. A mysterious virus struck the village she had been working at, high hemorrhagic fever and almost ninety percent mortality rates. They did everything they could, but nothing was working and before she knew it, they were being evacuated by the U.S embassy. She can still hear the cries of the children, even as she lands back in Boston and finds Bellamy waiting for her. She had been able to write a few letters, the last of which she had told him about the virus and her distress that she hadn't been able to save people. Why couldn't she save them?_

_He wraps her in his arms, holding her so tight she feels like she might spontaneously combust. He’s still the same-- messy hair and wide smile. Her heart seizes because she missed him so much and now he’s right here just like he said he’d be._

_“I love you,” is the first thing he says, “I love you so fucking much.”_

_They say you don’t know what it’s like to miss someone until they’re gone. And she knew she’d miss him, hell, she would miss him any time he was gone more than a few hours. She thought maybe that homesickness would subside, maybe she’d grow use to missing him almost like you grow used to missing friends you only see on occasion. But fuck, she felt like a piece of her was lost._

_And it seems he did too, because when he kisses her, it’s a thousand words. There’s not a care in the world that they’re standing in the middle of a crowded airport. It’s just the two of them, wrapped in one another, and the realization that they are two pieces of the same broken puzzle. One incomplete without the other. Better together._

* * *

 

Her neck hurts. She rolls it on her shoulders as they drive trying to pop it back into place. It cracks but the tightness doesn’t leave and she rubs small circles hoping for some relief. She managed to sleep for a couple of hours before giving up and taking watch for Lincoln. He had been apprehensive to give it up, considering she’s a stranger and they don’t know much about her besides she has some sort of magic blood. But with some convincing and heavy eyelids, he finally slinked into the truck.

The quiet gave her some solace. She’s been on her own for nearly four months. Being alone is second nature. Something she never thought she would be good at. Yet she’s made it this far. She’s a goddamn survivor, as it turns out.

“We should be there in a couple of hours” Octavia says absently, “Provided no issue.”

“Your friends going to be okay with you picking up a stray?” Clarke asks, suddenly starting to feel nervous about meeting an entire group of people. She’s forgotten how to socialize.

“We were all strays at one point or another,” Lincoln answers. She leans back against the seat letting that sink in.

Isn’t that the truth.

* * *

 

_He’s laying her lap, her fingers threading through his hair after a particularly long day. He’s finally moved in with her officially, boxes scattered about the apartment half unpacked. They’re watching a trashy reality show to unwind and he places a lazy kiss on her exposed thigh._

_Sometimes it amazes her that they made it this far. She was just a miserable dump at a wedding and he was the guy who was sent to cheer her up with bad jokes. Neither one of them knew what they were doing and somehow found each other. Sometimes her heart aches with how much she loves him, how grateful she is to have him by her side in everything._

_The television flashes and a breaking news report interrupts two yelling housewives._

_“We interrupt this program to bring breaking news,” the anchor says all too formally, “Shocking video today out of Los Angeles. A man terrorizes park goers as they enjoy their afternoon walk. A witness says they were walking their dog when they saw him approach a couple in the grass. He says he bit the woman first, tearing off part of her cheek!”_

_The video begins to play, recorded by shaky hands and poor quality due to the distance. People see the event and run, screaming in terror as the man rips into the girl. Clarke watches, covering her mouth in disgust. Her fingers stop moving in his hair._

_“What the fuck?” she murmurs and Bellamy sits up, watching intently before turning the television off all together._

_“This why I don’t watch the news,” he growls, his back popping as he stands, “They always show these videos to create mass hysteria when there’s a freak accident.”_

_She laughs, “That didn’t look like a freak accident, Bell.”_

_He shrugs, offering his hand to help her up, “Bath salts?”_

_He pulls her to him, wrapping his hand around her waist and pressing a kiss to her throat, “You know, we still need to christen the apartment.”_

_She giggles as he noses at her jaw, “I’m pretty sure we’ve covered that five times over in the last year and a half.”_

_“True,” he agrees, “But I just moved in so it’s like, ritual at this point.”_

_“Ritual, huh?” she says pressing against him already, his hands pushing the cotton t-shirt she’s wearing above her hip._

_He hums as she kisses him, taking his bottom lip between her teeth, “If you insist.”_

* * *

 

She starts to get nervous when they pull off the road, truck bouncing against the rough terrain. She holds onto the dash as they drive through a path in the woods, trees scraping against the windows as they go. Neither companion seems concerned as they drive and she tries to relax.

Lincoln stops the truck as the bottom of a ravine and gets out. Octavia gestures for her to follow. She grabs her pack and her rifle, throwing them over her shoulder. When she walks, her calf still can’t take most of her weight and she’s slow trying to climb the hill. She hits a particulary rough patch of roots and falls to her knee with a cry. Octavia offers a hand and she takes it, legs shaking as she pushes herself back up. She's already slowing them down. 

_Way to prove you're a real asset, Clarke._

“Go on ahead,” Lincoln tells Octavia, throwing her arm over his shoulder once more, “I’ll make sure she gets up. You can tell everyone she’s coming.”

Octavia does as she’s told and she let’s Lincoln guide her up the hill, and she feels her lungs begin to burn at the incline.

“Do you all stay up here because all the deadites are too out of shape to walk up it?” she huffs out. He lets out a deep laugh in response.

"Something like that." 

She hates the silence, always has, so she fills it: "How did this group come together?"

Lincoln shrugs his shoulder underneath her arm, "I was on my way into the city when the bombs hit. I took shelter in ditch on the side of the highway and that's where Octavia and her brother found me. Most of us met on the highway, but some we picked up along the way. All those television shows and movies used to act like a large group was a liability, but I've found it to be more helpful than anything. And the company is nice." 

She shouldn't, but she feels something in her chest. Excitement, maybe? Or worse, hope. She hadn't had contact with anyone in four months. Before that, her only companion was a grumpy ex-marine who hated talking most days. It's strange, she hand't even noticed the lonliness until she was given the prospect of a group. Her instincts should kick in, tell her to run or not so easily trust. Except they aren't. Quite the opposite. 

The ground finally flattens out and she can see smoke through the trees. As they push through the final brush, her mouth drops open at the sight. Scattered around the mountain edge is at least two dozen tents. Clothes are flapping from where they're hung on makeshift wire, a fire burns in the middle. She can already here the sound of chatter, something long since foreign to he

“I should warn you,” he says as they approach, “Octavia’s brother is a bit…” He seems to consider what he wants to say, pursing his lips as if to hold in something unflattering.

"Protective?" she tries to supply.

“Overwhelming." he decides.

"In general or to you?" 

"Both, I guess. He's sort of the de facto leader and I don't think he likes me very much." 

“Well, does he know  you two are…” she asks, thinking of the intimacy between him and Octavia in just the few hours she's known them. Lincoln nods.

“I’m sure that has a lot to do with it,” she deadpans. She never had siblings but she’s seen how protective they are of each other. No matter what.

* * *

 

_“Mom, I feel fine,” she shouts into the phone as it sits next to her on the counter. She’s attempting to cook dinner, something Bellamy doesn’t believe her capable of doing without burning. He just finished up for the school year, and she knows it was a stressful one. He finishing monitoring and the high school offered him the permanent position as sophomore and junior history teacher._

_Fucking nerd, but she’s so proud._

_“You’ve watched the news, Clarke,” Abby worries, voice shaking on the other end, “This is serious. People are dying. Fast.”_

_Of course she’s watched the news. All it talks about is this new virus going around -- one eerily similar to what she encountered in Nepal. Similar symptoms and high mortality.  She had been surrounded by it for nearly three weeks and never felt sick once. So she waves off the concern._

_“I promise, I will keep you updated,” she hears the key in the lock, “I have to go. Love you!”_

_She pulls the lasagna from the oven, the cheese a perfect golden brown. She pumps her fist in triumph. The smile drops from her face when he walks into the kitchen._

_He’s a mess. Hair disheveled, tie hanging loosely around his neck. She notices a spot of what looks to be ink sprinkled across his shirt._

_“Bell?”_

_He rushes to her to hug her, arms crushing around her like vice grips. She hugs him back, heart thumping wildly in her chest. Something is wrong._

_“What happened?” she asks when he pulls back. He isn’t looking at her but his eyes are glazed over, somewhere far away from their shared kitchen._

_He licks his lips, a shaky breath exhaling through his nose, “This is bad, Clarke.”_

_“What is?”_

_He starts to pace, running a hand through his hair repeatedly like he almost wants to pull it out. She grabs his arm, “Bellamy, what the fuck is going on?”_

_“Those reports,” he says frantically, “The ones about the virus and the videos of people being attacked. It’s real, fuck, it’s real!”_

_She’s trying to put together his disjointed thoughts. The virus is real, she knows that. And there have been a few more videos like the one they watched a couple of months ago but she’s not understanding…_

_“Fucking zombies, Clarke. People eating people. The virus, it kills you and then you turn into one of them.”_

_It sounds made up. A plot to a movie. She laughs, thinking maybe he had a little too much celebratory whiskey with the principal. They like to do that, according to him, mostly on Friday’s to celebrate the end of the week._

_“You’re not making any sense,” she tells him gently and then he’s gripping her shoulders, eyes wild and scared._

_“I watched one of my students turn,” he tells her, emotion lacing his words, a memory harsh and fresh, “They were in the bathroom, I guess they had the virus but didn’t tell anyone. And Charlotte, she went to check on them, and she…”_

_She steps back, falling against the counter. It’s not ink on his shirt, but blood._

_Blood on his shirt, the wild look in his eyes. Her mom’s phone call. Fuck._

_“We have to leave,” he tells her.  Where will they go? How will they get away from this if it’s as bad as her mom says?_

_“What? And go where?”  her arms hold him against her chest, trying to calm him the only way she knows how._

_“I have to get my sister.”_

_She hardly registers it, still trying to put together the puzzle laid out in front of her, “What?”_

_His sister has always been a quiet topic, something they've only discussed a handful of times and even so, Clarke's never fully understood the nature of it. She knows that it's not a good relationship, made toxic by years of pent up anguish and frustration on both sides. They live completely separate lives so it is nothing short of astonishing that the mysterious sibling is suddenly the first thing on his mind._

_“I have to make sure she’s okay,” he repeats and she grips his face in her hands, causing him to stop his movements._

_“You don’t even know where she is,” she tries to reason, heart seizing in panic because if this is really happening, if death and destruction is inevitably on the horizon, she can’t lose him. She can’t let him blindly chase after someone who doesn’t want to be found._

_“My sister, my responsibility,” he mumbles, and he stumbles from the kitchen with it under his breath, her dinner forgotten on the stove._

* * *

 

As they grow closer, Clarke's excitement quickly morphs into severe anxiety. There are too many eyes on her, hushed whispers as Lincoln helps her to one of the vacant logs around the fire. She lets out a sigh of relief once she's off her leg.

“I’ll grab the first aid kit." he disappears, leaving her sitting in the middle of a group of strangers. 

Well. Shit.

There's only a brief moment of silence, before a guy, not much younger than her with dark hair and goggles perched on his head steps forward. "Hey, uh, I'm Jasper?"

It's a painfully awkward introduction, but she's glad someone was willing to break the ice. 

"Clarke."

From there, her brain is nearly fried with names and introductions. Raven, the mechanic. Monty, the farmer. Shaw, the pilot. Indra and Miller, the police officers. Murphy, the thief -- when the bombs hit he had been in the back of Miller and Indra's squad car and Clarke finds it absolutely fascinating that despite this, they seem to get on pretty well. There's Harper. Luna. Echo. Diyoza, who's the pregnant one Octavia had told her about, and her husband, Paxton. 

So. Many. People. Her palms begin to sweat.

Thankfully, Lincoln returns with the med kit, handing it over for her to dig through. "You're the doctor, right? You can probably do a better job than me." 

 

She begins cleaning the wound, hissing between her teeth as she wipes over it with an antiseptic wipe. She doesn't hear any questions at first, focusing on dressing the wound to prevent infection. Since the bite isn't her biggest concern, the blood infection that can come from a dirty wound is. 

Is that?" Someone gasps and their eyes meet before she follows the hand resting on a pistol hooked to their belt.

"Relax," she grinds out, "I don't...they don't affect me."

There's a low murmur around her at that and she can the gears turning. A thousand questions. She tells them, "Just ask."

“Does it hurt?” one of the girls, Harper she thinks her name is, whispers.

Of fucking course, she wants to say.

* * *

 

_Her hands are trembling as she shoves a rolled up pair of pants into the backpack. The news plays from the living room, the sound of panic and despair echoing into the bedroom. She shoves a shirt in next. She checks her phone for the tenth time, still nothing. Bellamy was supposed to be back by now._

_He went to buy a gun. It’s a silly thing to do when the world is descending into chaos, it seems, but he didn’t want to go without protection and somehow he convinced her to stay behind and pack. They were planning to head to Boston U, having heard through friends that his sister had been going to school there,  to grab her and head south. Her mom is at the CDC in North Carolina and insisted they come stay with her. It's the safest place for them to be._

_She’s just snapping the bag shut when she hears a thud in the living room. She calls out, “Bell?”_

_No answer. She tosses the bag onto the bed and wipes the sweat from her palms on her jeans. She pads out into the living room, stopping when she notices the front door wide open. She grabs the screwdriver laying on the newly constructed shelf. She calls his name again. Still no answer. She swallows thickly and shuts the door, flipping the deadbolt locked._

_She only hears the snarl a second before she feels something latch onto her shoulder. She screams, pain ripping into her flesh and blood, eyes going black at the corners. She thrusts the screwdriver blindly, an awful squelch as it makes contact. The teeth go limp and the body falls to the floor and she falls with it._

_She’s burning._

* * *

 

“Like a bitch." She finally answers Harper’s question.

She feels suddenly overwhelmed by the presence of so many people and excuses herself, walking to the edge of camp and reaching into her pocket. She plucks one of the three sticks from the box and places it in between her lips. She lights it with ease this time, taking a long drag. She glances back where they all sit, surrounded by the fire and chatting happily. She can see a small camaraderie with them, a trust that seems almost impenetrable. She’s almost tempted to leave, considers putting out the cigarette and just bolting. There's nothing keeping her here and she'd done fine on her own thus far. 

_Yeah, right._

She could use the company. Talking to herself has grown a bit pathetic at this point, having conversations with flesh eating monsters that want her brains doesn't exactly count. She's been lonely, if she's being honest. Some days its hard to even remember what she's even doing here. What's the point of being alive when there's nothing worth living for? 

_Hope._

And as if the higher powers, karma or fate hears her prayers, she hears him.

 “Fuck you, Miller.”

She closes her eyes because this can’t be real. He can’t be here. But his voice is unmistakable, the deep gravel of it striking her to her core just like it had the first night they met. She turns to the group and sees him shrugging the other man off, and she hardly recognizes him. His hair is longer than it’s ever been, face covered in dark stubble. The cigarette falls from her fingers. Her leg screams in protest but she runs towards him, heart trying to claw out of her chest to make it to him.

Bellamy. Home. He's here. He’s right fucking here.

She charges into him, throwing her arms around his neck with cry as she feels him underneath her. He’s solid and warm. Alive. She laughs into his shirt, fingers digging into the familiar muscle of his shoulder. All those nights she wondered if this moment were even possible, if she were clinging to a dream that could never be. It's real. It's happening.

And yet.

It only takes her a moment to realize that something isn't right. His arms are pinned to his side and his breaths are shallow and tense. She pulls pack in confusion, worried that maybe she'd had it all wrong. But she knows his eyes, the lines that crinkle around them in laughter down. She reaches out to touch his cheek, to feel him underneath her fingertips but he pulls back abruptly, disentangling himself from her altogether. She stumbles forward at the loss of him. He's looking at her like she's certifiably insane, like he doesn't know her from the next person on the street. Like he hadn't mapped her out with his fingers, dug into the crevices of her mind. Like he doesn't know every single part of her intimately.

"Bellamy?" it's a question and when he registers nothing but pure shock at the sound of his name, she has her answer. 

It's stupid but she reaches out again and he steps away sharply, "Do I know you?"

She forgets how to breathe, "Bellamy, it's me!" 

She grabs his arm, trying to fit her hand into his but he pulls away, "Don't!"

He looks at the crowd now gathered around them as if maybe they have some explanation as to why she's trying to cling to him, and they shrug. It's not a big deal, it seems to say. Not a big deal that her world is falling apart. She locks eyes with Octavia, who looks to be in shock, eyes bouncing between them in nothing more than strange curiosity but it's then she notices the resemblance. Octavia, Bellamy's sister. 

 With indescribable impact, the air leaves her lungs. This can't be happening.  _This can't be happening._ Her head is spinning. Does she have it all wrong? Is she crazy? Maybe it’s all fucked with her head. How could this be?

He takes a few steps back, looking her up and down with immediate disdain.

"You can stay here tonight," he says without pause, turning back towards his _sister_ and sharing a meaningful look, "But tomorrow, you have to go."

He doesn't even wait for a response, just stalks past her as she falls to her knees. Her fingers tangle in the blades of grass as her chest feels like it might explode. Memories float through her mind like a dream and she;s starting to wonder if maybe it was. All those moments together - best and worst  and everything in between. Everything that helped her wake up in the morning and sleep at night. 

 And now he's right here and somehow, not at all. 

 

* * *

 

_Her arms is useless at her side as she tries to stand, and she feels herself getting light headed. Blood, so much blood, spills from the open wound of her shoulder. The thing took an entire section from it, bit into her like she was made of cotton candy. She manages to grab a towel from the kitchen to staunch the bleeding. Her skin grows cold._

_She sits on the floor next to the body and wonders if that’s what fate awaits her. It’s disgusting. It’s tragic. And she can’t muster the energy to cry. But then she thinks of Bellamy and she has no idea where he is or when he’ll be back. What if he doesn’t make it in time? What if she bleeds out before he can get here and becomes just another monster?_

_He can’t see her like that._

_She stumbles to the bedroom for her phone, pressing his contact name and sinking to the floor as she becomes lightheaded. It rings and rings, her ears start to feel full. Like they’re full of water. She feels heavy._

_“Clarke?” his voice draws her back to reality, if only for a second._

_“Bellamy,” she croaks. She holds in the break down ready to release from her body. She has to stay strong. For him._

_“Are you okay?” he asks but he sounds far away, “I’m on my way, I’m-- ”_

_“No!” she shouts, cutting him off. This isn’t how it was supposed to go._

_“Clarke –”_

_“You can’t come home,” she tells him, voice hardly above a whisper, “Please. You can’t.”_

_She can hear how wrecked he is, how he's teetering on the edge of completely losing it, “What are you talking about, of course –”_

_“I’m sick,” she manages to say, firm and final. Her fingers are beginning to go numb, “The virus. You can’t be here. Don’t come home.”_

_There’s a pause. And then she hears something slam in the background, sounding like a fist on a window. She nearly falls apart when he yells, “No. No, no, no!”_

_“I’m sorry,” she says into the speaker, wanting nothing more than to reach through it and pull him through. To have him hold her and say everything is going to be okay._

_“Fuck!” a sob pierces through the phone, a sound she’s never heard leave him and she closes her eyes._

_“I love you,” she’s beginning to shiver violently. Her teeth chatter, “I love you so much.”_

_“I can’t,” he’s frantic, she hears the sound of his car speeding up, “I can’t do this without you, please, just let me—”_

_“Find your sister,” she’s so weak now, the phone begins to loosen in her grip, “Find her and live, Bell. I need you to live, okay?”_

_“No, please,” he begs, “Please.”_

_“Don’t come home.”_

_The line goes dead._

_The world disappears._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are always appreciated.  
> Everything is written out, just in need of editing and such. It looks to be about 40k total.  
> Could this be terrible? Maybe. But I had a good time writing it.


End file.
